


Tempering a Friendship

by Hummingbird1759



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Christmas Party, F/M, Friendship, Possessive Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hummingbird1759/pseuds/Hummingbird1759
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How John's life changed post-Reichenbach, and what that means for his friendship with Sherlock after the Return. Rated T for profanity, discussion of suicide.  [Chapters 1-3 written prior to airing of TEH]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Too early for Christmas fic? Tell that to my brain, which has had “The Holly and The Ivy” stuck in it for weeks! :) As always, I don’t own these characters, Moffat/Gatiss and Conan Doyle do.
> 
> Warning: discussion of suicide in this story.

**Temper:** v. improve the hardness and elasticity of (steel or other metal) by reheating and then cooling it.

Sherlock had only been back from the dead for six weeks when Mrs. Hudson insisted on having a Christmas party at Baker Street.   She’d prattled on about having “the whole family together again” and insisted on inviting Molly and Greg and even Mycroft (who, be thankful for small mercies, had other plans).  Just when Sherlock thought the idea couldn’t get any more annoying, she suggested something to John.

“Will you invite Mary?”

John grinned.  “I’d love to.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to his laptop.  _(Girlfriends.  Tedious.)_   He’d managed to rid them of Deleted-Name, The Boring Teacher on the last Christmas they’d spent together and perhaps this Christmas he’d accomplish the same with Mary _.  (He’s spending entirely too much time with her.)_

The day of the party came, and as he’d done two years before, he indulged Mrs. Hudson by playing Christmas carols on his violin.  He’d still refused to wear the antlers – “Let’s not make a spectacle, Mrs. Hudson” – but he’d plastered on a smile and told himself it would all be over soon.  After playing the required carols, he make a beeline for his laptop.

Lestrade was the first to arrive, followed closely by Molly.  Sherlock noticed the way Greg looked at her and forced himself not to roll his eyes.  _(For God’s sake, Lestrade, stop pining!  Teenaged girls at One Direction concerts are more subtle!)_   John whispered something in Molly’s ear that made her blush a faint pink and then glance in Lestrade’s direction, and this time Sherlock actually did roll his eyes.  _(Don’t encourage them!)_

A female voice called out, “Good evening!”

Sherlock frowned but didn’t take his eyes off of this laptop.  _(Just ignore her.)_   He focused on The Work, party noise swirling about him unnoticed, until he felt a presence next to him.

“Sherlock?”

The detective looked up and saw John in his boring Christmas sweater with his equally boring girlfriend standing next to him.  “Busy,” the dark-haired man grunted.

“Sherlock, it’s time to exchange gifts,” the doctor gently coaxed.

“I didn’t get you anything,” he mumbled.

John smiled warmly.  “You came back from the dead.  That absolves you of any responsibility for giving gifts for the next hundred years.  But,” he said, lightly tugging at the detective’s elbow, “You still have an obligation to _receive_ gifts, and Mary and I got you something.”

“Oh,” the detective said, taking the gift with an outstretched hand.  “Given the size and weight, it’s likely to be a scarf, and because John wore mine while I was gone and somehow manage to spill tea on it three times – did you really think I wouldn’t notice, John? – it’s no doubt a replacement.  Since John hates to shop, it was bought at the last minute by Mary, and going by her current wardrobe, she probably went to one of those horrid stores on Oxford Street that sell overpriced Chinese knockoffs of designer fashion.”

Mary gaped and struggled to come up with a retort, but no words came out.   Luckily, someone else spoke for her.

John gritted his teeth, jabbed an accusatory finger at Sherlock Holmes and snarled, “Don’t _ever_ speak to my fiancée that way again.”

Sherlock recoiled as if he’d been slapped.  The rest of the party guests gaped along with Mary.  John’s jaw dropped and his hand went to his face as he realized what he’d just said.  After an excruciating twelve seconds of silence, the doctor stammered, “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean for everyone to find out like this.  But, er, yes, we’re engaged.  The wedding is next summer, and you’re all invited.”

Molly squealed with excitement.  Greg shook both the happy couple’s hands and congratulated them.  Mrs. Hudson hugged Mary and told her, “Welcome to the family!” 

Sherlock murmured his congratulations and John curtly accepted them.  The detective retreated to his room as soon as possible, and the doctor and his fiancée left without telling him goodbye. 


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning, Mary Morstan padded into her kitchen in a robe and slippers and found a disheveled John slumped at the table, coffee mug in hand.  As she fetched her own coffee, she murmured, “Did you get any sleep, love?”

“No,” the doctor said with a yawn.  “I kept thinking about last night.”

“What about it?”

“It’s Sherlock,” he sighed as the blonde woman sat down next to him.  The doctor fiddled with his mug as he contemplated his next words.

“Don’t tell me you feel bad for calling him out on his behaviour,” Mary said, rolling her eyes.  “I know you’ve a soft spot for him, but really!”

The doctor lifted his head in surprise and took her hand, tenderly caressing it with his thumb.  “No!  Don’t be ridiculous!  Nobody’s allowed to talk to you that way, not even him.  If Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been there, I’d have punched him.”

“Then what is it?”

John sighed.  “Before Sherlock… fell, he’d say all kinds of horrible things to my girlfriends and run them off.  And I let him because he was – is – the best friend I’ve ever had.”  He paused for a moment, struggling for words.  “Have I ever told you how Sherlock saved my life?”

Mary took a sip of coffee, still holding John’s hand.  “You mean from Moriarty’s snipers?”

“No, I mean the _first_ time he saved my life.  After I came back from Afghanistan.” 

She gave him a quizzical look.  She thought she knew all of John’s Sherlock stories, and she was expecting another harrowing tale of chasing criminals or escaping a terrorist’s clutches by the skins of their teeth.  What she heard was something completely different.

The doctor took a long sip of his coffee and slowly began speaking, avoiding Mary’s eyes.  “When I returned from Afghanistan, it was as if all the colour had been sucked out of my life.  Nothing seemed important anymore.  I couldn’t operate because of my hand, my limp kept me out of the Army, and I wasn’t qualified to do anything else.   I hated going to therapy but I kept it up because it was the only thing that gave me a reason to leave my flat.”

John paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his left hand. _(Steady.  She needs to know who she’s marrying.)_    “What I’m about to tell you is something I’ve never told anyone else, including Sherlock, although I imagine he worked it out within minutes of meeting me.”

Sucking in a deep breath, the ex-soldier said, “During my last skirmish – the one when I was shot  – a friend of mine was killed and I took his sidearm because my gun had jammed.  When I was discharged, I turned in my gun but kept his.  No one noticed one pistol was missing; they assumed my friend had somehow lost his on the battlefield.  I kept the gun loaded in the top drawer of my desk.  If anybody saw it, I’d just tell them that I lived in a rough neighbourhood and was worried about intruders.”

“And nobody saw it,” she murmured.

John gave a brief nod.  “No.  If my therapist had known about it, she’d have found a way to get it away from me, but I never told her.  Some days I’d just sit with the gun in my lap, wondering what it would feel like, if anyone would hear, how long it would take for them to find me… if anyone would miss me.”

“Oh, love…” Mary breathed.   He refused to meet her gaze, so she gently turned his face towards hers and ran her thumb over his cheek, turquoise fingernails in sharp contrast to his stubble.

“One afternoon, after my appointment with Ella, I decided to take a walk through the park.  I didn’t want to go home and try to blog again because nothing ever happened to me, and I wasn’t ready for another staring contest with the gun.”  _(Because my landlord was on holiday and nobody would have found me for a week.)_

Recognition appeared in Mary’s face.  “Is that when you ran into Mike?”

“Yes,” the doctor said, the shroud lifting from his features.  “Within a day of meeting Sherlock, I had an entirely different reason for keeping the gun.”

John took Mary’s hand in both of his.  “He’s a good man.  He’s the worst good man I’ve ever met, but he’s still a good man, and I owe him my life.  But,” he said, stroking Mary’s hand with his thumb again, “He’s not the only person who’s saved my life.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, and leaned over to kiss him.   When their lips parted, she gazed into his eyes for a moment, and then teased,, “I’m sure if you kept having to cook for yourself, you’d have died of food poisoning by now.”

The doctor huffed, “Oi!  What’s wrong with my cooking?”

Mary got up to refill their mugs, and glancing over her shoulder, she purred, “The Beef Bourguignon Incident.”

John got up, a predatory grin on his face.  He slid behind Mary, wrapped his arms around her and whispered into her neck, “I recall you enjoyed your dessert that night.”

She turned to face him, draped her arms around his neck and cooed, “Yes… care to make that recipe again?”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had been on the couch in his dressing gown all day. He'd done his best to distract himself with experiments, but as the winter sun descended, it became harder and harder to keep thoughts of John out. John was engaged. John was not going to live at Baker Street again.  _(Marriage. Boring. He'll probably have some children too. Repulsive creatures.)_  John was going to devote more and more time to Mary and their eventual children and would stop coming to cases. Sherlock would just be a footnote in his past, a bedtime story he told to his children. John would become dull, boring, and tedious.

It didn't matter, the detective told himself. He had lived without friends for years before John. He had taken down Moriarty's web without John. He didn't need John, didn't need help, could operate perfectly well on his own, thank you very much.

A knock at the door brought Sherlock back to the present.  _(If Lestrade had a case, he would have texted. If it's Mycroft, he can let himself in. Mrs. Hudson is out, I didn't order takeaway, and I don't care to deal with clients just now. I shall ignore it.)_

As Sherlock attempted to return to his Mind Palace, he heard a voice that made their hair on the back of his next stand up.

"Sherlock? I came by to talk to you. Will you let me in?"

_(John.)_

Sherlock sat on the couch stewing.  _(No. You only came by so that you could wring an apology out of me.)_

John knocked again. "Sherlock, I thought you might be hungry so I brought takeaway from Angelo's."

Sherlock's stomach growled and he cursed his transport for picking a most inopportune time to make its presence known. "Is  _she_  with you?"

A slight huff came from the other side of the door and John replied, "No. I'm alone."

Grumpily, the detective called, "Fine. Don't you still have your key?"

"No, I gave it back to Mrs. Hudson. Now would you let me in? The chicken parmesan is getting cold!"

Sherlock stomped over to the door and let John in, bedraggled and carrying a large bag of Italian food.  _(Slightly wet – the snow must have begun just before he arrived here. Smell: Chicken parmesan, lasagna, and tiramisu. Bought my favourites so that he knew I'd let him in.)_

The doctor stepped inside. After Sherlock shut the door, he demanded, "So where's Mary?"

"At her mum's. I'll join them tomorrow afternoon, but in the meantime, I'd like to see you. Old times, you know?"

The detective grunted his assent. He flipped on the telly and the two of them tucked into their food while watching ridiculous shows and playfully arguing over the Mythbusters' techniques.

During a commercial break, John turned to Sherlock and said, "About last night…"

"Yes, yes, 'proper gentlemen don't speak to ladies that way,'" the detective said, clearly parroting something his mother had told him numerous times.

John gave an exasperated sigh. "It's not that. Sherlock, er, do you remember when we first met?"

"Do  _I_  remember? I would think  _you'd_  be the one who's forgotten," the detective snorted.

Ignoring the jibe, the shorter man continued. "You deduced within the first two minutes that I was an army doctor who had been invalided home from Afghanistan and I had an alcoholic sibling who'd just left her spouse. It probably didn't take you much longer to realize that I had a gun."

"About two more minutes," the detective said absently. "You were one step away from turning it on yourself when you met me, and the only reason you didn't is that you didn't think anyone would find you for over a week."

John swallowed hard. "Yes. You kept me from taking that step, as I'm sure you know. But… do you know what happened after you jumped?"

Sherlock fidgeted. "Mycroft told me a few things."

"I went to your grave every week. I talked to your headstone. I-"

The detective scoffed, "You talked to my headstone? John, that is the most ridiculous-"

"It was a poor substitute for you," John growled. "And I did something I hadn't done since I first came home from Afghanistan. I sat with my gun in my lap and thought," the doctor sighed deeply, "about using it."

"John, if this is another attempt to make me feel guilty, it's not going to work. Moriarty would have destroyed you and I did what I had to do!" Sherlock harrumphed, folding his arms and flopping his feet onto the coffee table dramatically.

"No, you twit! Let me finish." John took a deep breath, looked Sherlock in the eyes and continued, "I know now that you did what you had to do. And I will always be grateful. But this isn't about you. Six months after you jumped, I went on a date with Mary. I really wasn't expecting anything, but I was bloody sick and tired of hanging around feeling useless after work. And she," the doctor paused, carefully selecting his words, "She brought the light back into my life."

Sherlock gave an epic eye roll. "Oh God, John, spare me the poetry you've written her!"

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Sherlock, the point is that two weeks after I started seeing her, I took the bullets out of my gun and threw them in the Thames. If I hadn't met her, you and I would not be having this conversation." He removed his hand from his face and looked Sherlock in the eyes. "She saved my life, and I won't have you insulting her."

"Fine," came the grudging reply. "I would have been most annoyed if I'd returned to find you deceased."

John softened as he said, "But you saved my life before she did. She knows that I won't have her insulting  _you_ , either."

The detective smirked at this. "Glad to see I still come first in something."

John licked his lips before he continued. "Sherlock, I can't promise you that I will always put you before Mary, and I can't promise you that things will be the same as they were before, but I  _can_  promise you that you are the best friend I've ever had, and nothing will change that."

"All right," Sherlock huffed.  _(John, you are not a very good liar, but at the minute I prefer your ill-told lies to the truth.)_

The flat was quiet for a moment and then John spoke. "So, Sherlock... er… would you be my best man?"

The detective snorted. "You can't get anyone else?"

John looked him in the eye and replied, "I don't  _want_  anyone else."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "And how does Mary feel about this?"

"She thinks you're a pompous arse. But she's chosen her sister to be maid of honour, and I think her sister's a harpy, so we're even," John shrugged.

The dark-haired man steepled his fingers under his chin. "Am I required to give a toast?"

The doctor smiled. "Yes. And you may embarrass me all you like. It's rather your job as best man."

"All right. But I may need a substitute to give my toast if I have a case."

John chuckled. "Fair enough."

"One more thing, John," the brunet rumbled. "You need to buy some more."

The blond man blinked. "More what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Bullets, John! For your gun!"

"Bought them the day after you came back," he replied with a grin.

The two men clinked glasses and resumed their marathon of crap telly. Tomorrow, John would be with Mary's family, Sherlock would be chasing a bank robber, and both of them would get caught in the morass of day-to-day life. But for now, the telly was crap, the food was good, they were at Baker Street, and Christmas was coming. Tonight, it was all fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not continue this. Watch this space.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: And nearly a year later, we pick up the story again! This chapter takes place in May 2014 and draws heavily on the Conan Doyle story "The Three Garridebs."_

* * *

John sank into his bed feeling as if gravity had quadrupled its pull on him. Three-month-old Ann was suffering from a nasty case of colic and had kept both of her parents up the last two nights with her incessant crying. Now she was finally asleep, Mary was finally asleep, and John was just about to drift off into slumber when his vibrating mobile jolted him into alertness. The doctor snarled at the irritating device. Whoever texted him had better have a very good reason; when it comes to fury, scorned women have nothing on new parents who've just been rudely awakened after finally closing their eyes.

_Case! Come immediately! – SH_

John studied the message for a moment. He'd slept for a total of seven hours in the last two days and he desperately needed to rest. On the other hand, tomorrow was his day off, and he hadn't been on a case with Sherlock since Ann was born _. (I worked with this sort of sleep deprivation in Afghanistan; this won't be much different._ _Besides, what if Sherlock really needs me?)_

_All right. Where are you? – JW_

_Outside in the cab. – SH_

John went to the front window, glanced outside and saw a cab in front of his house with a black-haired figure in the backseat.  _(Must be desperate if he'd come out this way.)_  The doctor shimmied into trousers and a button-up as quickly as he could without waking Mary or the baby and left a note for Mary by the bed. He slid into the cab next to Sherlock, who gave him a knowing smirk.

"So, er, what's the case?"

As the cab pulled away, Sherlock said, "A man called Nathan Garrideb approached me last week with an interesting story: he'd been approached by an American by the name of John Garrideb who said that if he could find three people with the surname 'Garrideb', all three of them stood to inherit half a billion dollars."

The doctor blinked. "What?"

"Yes, John, that's billion with a B, I know the baby's been colicky, but do try to keep up." Sherlock shot a pointed look at him and continued, "And we shall need absolute silence where we're going, so turn off your mobile."

John swiftly put the device into Airplane Mode, not seeing the text from his wife. "So Mr. Garrideb might inherit a huge sum from an American with more money than sense. What's that got to do with us?"

"He contacted me because he wanted to verify the American Garrideb's claims. Take a look at this video and tell me what you see," Sherlock said, holding up his phone.

John played the brief clip. "Er… blond, late thirties, speaks like a newscaster… looks like he spends too much money on the High Street."

"As always John, you see but you don't observe. He claimed to have been in Britain for years but he has too many American turns of phrase, such as 'sidewalk' and 'tennis shoes', to be anything but a recent arrival. He also a horrific liar; I told him a story of an acquaintance of mine that was a geologist and anti-fracking* activist in Oklahoma and he claimed to know him quite well, which he couldn't have done since my acquaintance died during the time this man would have been in prison."

John looked at him quizzically. "How did you know he'd been in prison?"

Sherlock zoomed in on the man's hand. "Notice the scars on his knuckles. Tattoos are common among American prisoners, and since these have only recently been removed, it's still possible to deduce what it said. EWMN – short for Evil, Wicked, Mean, Nasty; it's placed on the knuckles so that victims will see it as they're being beaten."

He put his phone back in his pocket and continued, "It was exceedingly easy to determine that his entire story was a fabrication, but the entertaining part has been determining the reason for the fabrication."

John asked, "Does the English Garrideb have something of value – money, land, antiques?"

"No, he's an extremely reclusive fellow, lives alone in a modest flat and has a large collection of something called 'Beanie Babies'. The American dresses like someone who needs to show off, eats steak every night and is an avid hunter; he couldn't be less interested in bean-bags shaped like cartoon representations of animals."

The doctor thought for a moment. "Maybe it's not the man he's interested in, but the flat? If it were next door to a bank, the American could tunnel under the floor and into a bank vault."

"Excellent grasp of the obvious, John. Alas, there are no banks, jewelry stores, or anything else of great import within tunneling distance of the English Garrideb's flat," Sherlock intoned.

John sighed and forced his mind to forget about the fatigue. "All right, I give up. What's he want with it?"

"That's what we're going to find out," Sherlock said with a smile. "I believe it has something to do with the prior occupant of the flat, one Richard Smythe, who was sent to Pentonville last year for counterfeiting, money laundering, and armed robbery. The American did us a favour by conjuring up a fool's errand to get Nathan Garrideb out of his home for a day; while he is out, we shall wait. And since the American is likely to bring a friend along, I thought it would be prudent for me to do so. I hope you brought your gun!"

"Of course," John snorted.

The cab pulled up just around the corner from Nathan Garrideb's flat and Sherlock tossed the fare at the driver. Sherlock and John sneaked through the alley behind the houses and arrived just in time to see the American spring out the back window of Garrideb's flat with a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist and race down the alley towards a waiting car. The detective and the blogger traded glances before charging after him.

Sherlock caught up to the man first and tackled him to the ground, and barked, "Hold him down, John!"

John sat atop the cursing American's midsection, forcing the captive's face into the gravel while Sherlock procured a lockpicking kit from his Belstaff. As he did so, John noticed a flash of silver from the getaway car.

"Vatican Cameos!" John shouted.

John hit the American on the head, knocking him unconscious, and the pair scurried behind a nearby skip, dragging the American and his briefcase with them. Despite the bullets whizzing past, Sherlock remained singularly focused on opening the briefcase. John sat with his back to the skip, glanced over his shoulder, and when the getaway driver paused to reload, he shot at his assailant, who returned fire. Another bullet zinged by John's ear and a third…

"Shit!" John hissed, grasping his right tricep.

Rubber squealed as the driver punched the accelerator and sped away. John let off one last shot, puncturing the getaway car's rear tyre and making a note of the license number.  _(At least he won't get far.)_

Sherlock's eyes widened as he saw John's injury and he immediately abandoned his lock-picking to unbutton John's cardigan and examine the injury. The detective's voice held a note of panic as he demanded, "Are you all right? For God's sake, are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, fine," John grunted.

Ignoring his friend's protests, the detective held pressure on the wound and whipped out his mobile, speed-dialing the first person he could think of.

"Lestrade," said the voice at the other end.

"We need an ambulance," Sherlock commanded. "It's John. We've detained one suspect and the other fled the scene, so send your least incompetent officers to track him down."

"I'm fine," the doctor insisted.

"You need a doctor," Sherlock rumbled, and then turned back to the phone and barked an address and a vehicle description at Lestrade before hanging up.

John threw up his good hand. "I  _am_  a doctor!"

"Then you ought to know that stress will increase your chances of going into shock!" The detective snapped.

A siren sounded in the distance. John glared at his friend and scowled, "Sherlock. I. Am. Fine! Now let me go before the accomplices get away!"

Sherlock huffed and increased the pressure on John's arm such that John worried his hand might pop off.

John grunted, "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you –"

Before he could utter any more curses, the paramedics arrived. As they bandaged John's arm, Sherlock finally opened the American's briefcase and saw that it was full of £50 notes. He held one up to see the way the sun shone through it and a grin spread across his face.

"Oh, this is a good one," he murmured.

"A good what? Way to hide drug money?" John said.

"No, John, look at these notes! What do you see?"

John picked one up. "Er… they're all Houblon £50 notes.** Look relatively old… er…"

"Oh for God's sake!" Sherlock interjected. "As you've no doubt missed during your child's incessant screeching, the Houblon £50 note was removed from circulation on 30th April."

John looked at the notes in the briefcase for a moment. Fatigue was starting to catch up with him. "Er…"

Sherlock sighed, "John, isn't it obvious? They're counterfeit! And rather poor forgeries at that, I might add: real notes have raised printing on the words 'Bank of England' and the lines are clear, not blurred like on these."

The doctor blinked. "But why would they counterfeit a bill that's no longer circulating?"

"Because until 30th October, some banks will still accept Houblon notes for deposit into accounts or to exchange for the Boulton/Watt notes. The American and his co-conspirators, with the help of complicit bank tellers, planned to do just that with their counterfeit notes," Sherlock explained with his usual impatience.

John nodded "As long as the bank tellers said the notes were genuine, they'd get away with it. Brilliant. So how did the briefcase end up in Nathan Garrideb's flat?"

"After Garrideb left my flat last night, I researched him. It appears that after he escaped from prison, he took up counterfeiting with Smythe," Sherlock nodded towards the American, who was under the care of the paramedics and beginning to regain consciousness. "And might I say, Mr.  _Winter_ ," he spat, "You are very lucky that your accomplices did not seriously harm John. Had he been killed, neither they nor you would see tomorrow."

John gazed at Sherlock in silent admiration. Sherlock wasn't good at feelings, he knew, and to hear him articulate them in this way was one of the greatest privileges he'd ever known.

Lestrade came round the corner and looked both surprised and relieved to see Sherlock and John. "Oi, John! Sherlock made it sound as if you were at death's door."

"I'm  _fine_ ," he insisted.

"So who's this bloke?" Lestrade asked, nodding to the American.

Sherlock explained at rapid fire. "He's been calling himself 'John Garrideb' but his real name is James Winter, alias Karl Evans, alias 'K-Money.' He recently escaped from Federal Correctional Institution in Otisville, New York where he was being held for producing counterfeit money and running a Ponzi scheme. He told my client, Nathan Garrideb, he would come into a large inheritance should he find two other men with the surname Garrideb, and, having had no luck in America, he came to Britain. Through a false Craigslist posting, he lured my client out of his home and broke in to retrieve what appear to be several thousand pounds in counterfeit Houblon fifties."

The American snarled at Sherlock. "Shut your cakehole, fag."

Sherlock cocked his head. "I've never understood why a preference for the same gender was to be construed as an insult."

"Enough!" Lestrade barked. "Why'd you break in the flat?"

James rolled his eyes at the detective. "To get my shit back. My partner –  _business_  partner, don't get ideas, jackass – left the case and his counterfeiting stuff under the floorboards before he went 'away.' When I heard they were gonna stop using these bills, I came to get them while they were still good."

Two PCs arrested James Winter and dragged him off. Lestrade turned to John and said, "You look rough, mate."

"Yeah," John said, stifling a yawn. "Baby's been colicky. It was good getting out of the house." He shot a smile at Sherlock, who returned the grin. _(Reminds me of the time Angelo brought back my cane…)_

After the cab dropped him off, John staggered back into his house, the full weight of his sleep deprivation finally hitting him. He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door, toed out of his shoes, and flopped face down on the couch. The house was still, the cushions were soft and all was peaceful until…

" _There_  you are!" Mary hissed.

He raised his head and blinked as his wife's face came into focus. "Uh… hi," he said lamely.

Mary loomed over John and berated him in a stage whisper. "Where the  _hell_  have you been? I've been texting you all afternoon! Ann woke up five minutes after you left and I've only just now got her back to sleep again!"

"I… er…" John stammered.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course. Solving a case with Sherlock. Here's a case for you: how long will it take for the baby to get back to sleep?" With that, Mary retrieved her bag and stomped out, slamming the door behind her with terrific force.

Seconds later, John heard the sound of a wailing infant and buried his face in the couch cushions. He let out an exhausted groan and dragged himself upstairs to the baby's room. He scooped baby Ann up out of her crib and began his usual routine of pacing the floor and gently rocking Ann.

Three hours later, Mary gently put her key in the front door and eased it open.  _(If the baby's asleep again, I'm not going to wake her now, and if she's still crying, I might be able to sneak past John.)_ The house was blissfully quiet, and Mary breathed a sigh of relief.  _(Now, to deal with Sherlock's sidekick…)_  She walked into the living room and was about to call out her husband's name whens he saw him napping on the couch with little Ann curled up on his shoulder. In spite of herself, Mary broke into a grin.  _(They drive me round the bend when they're awake, but God, they're adorable when they're asleep.)_  John certainly needed a talking-to, she decided, but that could wait until she had a hot bath and a nap. She tiptoed up the stairs to the master bathroom and enjoyed her peace and quiet.

Two weeks later, John sat on the recliner in the nursery and rubbed his eyes. The baby had finally finished an all-night crying jag and Mary was getting some much-needed rest. He was about to join her when his phone vibrated.

_Case! Come immediately! - SH_

John broke into a grin and tiptoed out the door.

* * *

_*Fracking is the practice of injecting a high-pressure fluid into a well, creating small fractures in the deep rock formations that allow petroleum and natural gas to migrate into the well. It's been blamed for recent increases in seismic activity in many parts of the world, including but by no means limited to Oklahoma._

_**The Houblon £50 note is an actual note that the Bank of England removed from circulation on 30th April 2014._


End file.
